


Only Good With You

by ans8812



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Dogs, Hand Jobs, Hockey, Latts was never a Capital, Love, M/M, Male Strippers, Rimming, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 18:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12731607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ans8812/pseuds/ans8812
Summary: Three days later and Michael still could not get that face off his mind; ardent eyes, sinful lips and that fucking cardboard Burger King crown on his head. Michael hated watching NHL hockey unless it was his hometown team, the Toronto Maple Leafs, but he had intentionally sat down to watch the Caps game last night in hopes of learning Birthday Boy’s name. And to get a glimpse of that face again.





	Only Good With You

**Author's Note:**

> The biggest thank you to @buucckyys (gasmsinc) for encouraging this idea, educating me about D.C. & just being your beautiful, creative self. Thank you for your patience & willingness to read this thing until I got it right.
> 
> Thank you to @Blue_Lynn88 for the title and constant cheerleading. You da best!
> 
> Title from L.P.'s "Good With You (Cling To Me)"

Michael did not work Sundays. In fact, when he had applied for this job, he had specifically requested Sundays off for “family time.” That was when he had a boyfriend and a puppy, dreams of opening his own hockey school in a burgeoning market, and plans for a domestic future with said boyfriend. He was okay working three jobs because it was only temporary….and he could have Sunday off to be with his boys. Chris had promised he was fine with the stripper thing. It was great money and it’s not like Michael was sleeping with any of the customers.

  
But that had turned out to be a lie because just three months after Michael got the job, Chris told him he couldn’t be with him anymore. He couldn’t have a stripper boyfriend. How would that look to his clients? How would he explain it to his co-workers? Never mind the fact it was just a means to an end, and within a year Michael had hoped to have the cash for a down payment on the building he had found for his school, with enough put away to be able to pay on his loan every month. Instead, he had found himself homeless because Chris had been the one paying for their condo. Michael kept the pup, though.

  
Two years later, he was still bartending and stripping at night, coaching midget hockey during the day, managing to pay rent, groceries and car insurance; his hockey school dream felt a thousand miles away. He had worked Friday and Saturday night. So when he was woken up Sunday morning with a call from his boss saying he needed to get his cute tight ass to work by 9 that night, Michael was quite literally ready to fight someone.

  
“We got a special request for you,” his boss explained. “A bunch of professional athletes celebrating their teammate’s twenty-first birthday. We’ll pay you double. Plus, the tips will be outrageous, I’m sure.”

  
Michael liked the young party boys that came into the club with more money than they knew what to do with because they had no qualms about throwing it around. Booze, food, tips, private dances; money for the club meant money for him. What he made in tips alone tonight could potentially pay his rent for the next two months, and everything else could be put into his hockey school savings account.

  
“Fine,” Michael mumbled sleepily, “fine, I’ll be there.”

  
“Wasn’t really a request, pretty boy. See you at 9.”

  
“Yeah yeah.”

  
Michael hung up, half wishing he had a landline so he could slam it back on the cradle, but he did toss his cellphone onto the empty bed beside him. Walter, the chocolate lab/pitbull mix Chris had brought home for Michael their first Christmas together, jumped and stared at his master, offended at being woken up so rudely.

  
“Excuse me, King Walter, did I interrupt your beauty sleep?” Michael glared back. “You get to laze around all day. I’m the one that works to allow you to live in such luxury.” Walter whined, stretching out his legs to shift closer, placing his paws on the sheet across Michael’s thighs. A doggy apology if ever there was one. Michael reached out to rub the dog’s huge head, man and beast drifting off to sleep again for the next couple hours.

  
>< >< ><

  
“What are you doing here, babe? You do know it’s Sunday night.”

  
Michael turned from the mirror where he was dusting a light layer of powder on his forehead, smiling and leaning in for his co-worker and friend to kiss his cheek in greeting, “Money doesn’t sleep, Gio….and, apparently, my ass is the talk of the town.”

  
“Honey, do you know who it is that requested your ass?” Gio stretched one leg out to rest his ankle on Michael’s thigh as he unlaced what he called his “grab-ass boots”; “because they push your ass out and make the boys wanna just grab it.” Thigh-high sparkly red with a four inch heel that he loved to pair with a white feathered boa and silky black, ass-less briefs. The first thing Michael had learned about Gio was his predilection for accessories, especially if they made him feel pretty. Of course, Gio was gorgeous without help; tall, slender, built like a swimmer. He was all lean muscle under naturally tan skin with dark hair and brown eyes framed by long, thick lashes. Gio had been dancing the first night Michael started at the club. All beautiful Italian grace and sex on two legs. Michael had suddenly felt like a troll. When they had met in the dressing room after Gio’s set, he could not have been more kind and encouraging, helping calm some of Michael’s jittery nerves.

  
“George said they were professional athletes,” Michael set down the powder brush, ready to go with ten minutes to spare.

  
Gio snorted, “It’s the Washington Capitals.”

  
“As in the hockey team Washington Capitals?”

  
“The one and only.”

  
“Oh shit no,” Michael breathed out, looking at himself in the mirror, now questioning every choice he had made about his appearance tonight. The nerves he had not had since that first night stripping came flooding back. “Oh my god, Gio, why did it have to be hockey players? Shit shit shit fuck shit!”

  
“Hey!” Gio reached out, placing his steady hand over Michael’s trembling one on the wardrobe table. “Sweetheart, you are fabulous. You are going to kill it. Those dense puckheads out there are going to be so enamored by your perfect bod and thick ass, they’re all gonna leave just a little more gay tonight. They chose you, Latts, so you hold all the power. Go charm their fucking pants off….or make them empty their pockets into your jock strap.”

  
Michael grabbed his friend’s face and pulled him in for a quick peck on the lips, “What would I do without you, Gio?”

  
“Crash and burn, babe, crash and burn.”

  
“Latts, you’re on in five,” George poked his head into the dressing room.

  
“Aye aye,” Michael stood and mock-saluted his boss, who just rolled his eyes and went on his way.

  
Gio swatted Michael’s ass, “Go get ‘em, Latts.”

  
>< >< ><

  
Tom either wanted to kill or kiss Ovi because he knew the captain was the ringleader of all this. The entire team had “kidnapped” him, using the extra key he had given to TJ for safe-keeping, to get into his apartment and literally dragging him out of bed where he had been napping. They drove him to The Cockpit, a gay strip club in Georgetown; he had only heard of the club before, never been. As far as he was aware, Tom was the only guy on the team who was sexually attracted to other men, but that did not stop his teammates from having a good time. Schmidty and the Swedes hooted and hollered for the sexy Italian in red high-heeled boots dancing — stripping — to a bass-heavy Rihanna song. Willy and Greenie had beckoned the half-naked man closer to shove a few dollar bills into his waistband. Ovi looked about two seconds away from jumping up and dancing his own show on the table. Tom was pretty sure the only thing holding the Russian in his seat was Backy’s absurdly powerful grip on his thigh.

  
By the time Ovi leaned over and shouted to be heard over the thumping music, Tom was four shots and three beers in, courtesy of his evil teammates. “Only be twenty-one for year. Live now,” Ovi had insisted as he pushed the second birthday cake shot into Tom’s hand. Tom couldn’t argue with that. Now, the rest of the guys were rowdy on beer and hard liquor as well, tipping generously, whistling and cat-calling all the strippers.

  
“This one for you,” Ovi pointed at the next guy coming out onto the stage. Tom’s head went light, vision hazy and heart suddenly pounding along to the hard beat of the music; it wasn’t the alcohol doing that, though. His eyes tracked every movement of this man, whom they had announced as Latts, and he was proud of himself for catching that much at least. This guy was not pretty like Italian Hot Boots; he was drop dead gorgeous. A perfect 10 as he began dancing, body moving to an EDM song Tom had never heard before. But there could be no music and this guy dancing would still be the sexiest thing Tom had ever seen in his life.

  
The dude — Latts — was wearing a nondescript hockey jersey in Capitals colors that looked to be two sizes too small; a number 17 on the back. Tom wondered if that number had any significance, but then he was distracted again by the tight booty shorts working overtime to contain that ass. Garters strained across cedar tree thighs to hold up the hockey socks that would not be regulation on the ice; they fit more like sheer tights and only came up mid-thigh. Latts’s gaze seemed to settle on him, eyes raking over Tom’s body, tongue peeking out to lick bow-shaped lips. As if he liked what he saw.

  
Transfixed, Tom’s pants suddenly felt too tight and he placed a palm in his lap. He watched as Latts’s thumbs hooked in the hem of the jersey, hips grinding the air as he slowly lifted it a few inches, teasing. Hands smoothed over cut abs then followed down the V of his pelvis, half-hidden by those low-riding shorts. Whistles and cheers urged Latts to keep going with his strip tease. He turned around to reveal that firm, round peach butt tucked in those tiny shorts, hips shaking, the muscles in the broad planes of his back working as he pulled the jersey off over his head. Tom gasped, blood rushing to his groin to chub up his cock.

  
If sex could be embodied, it was this guy. He was built like a fucking tank. Broad everywhere, bulging upper arms, tight muscles, yet agile; like a hockey player, and Tom wondered if he was. He certainly had the ass for it. Speaking of, one tug and a roll of his lower body that should be illegal, and the shorts were on the floor, revealing a damn jockstrap. Beside Tom, Ovi clapped and cheered for that move, tossing a couple bills onto the stage to join the other money that had been thrown by Tom’s teammates. Oh fuck, the guy was doing push-ups now, stretched out on hands and toes to give his audience a profile view of his nude torso as he humped the floor. Tom never thought of push-ups as being sexy, but now he was not going to be able to do another one without popping a boner.

  
The garter belt went next. Latts unhooked the socks and tossed the belt with little fanfare because what came next was the real show. He grabbed a chair that had been pushed aside from one of the previous acts and set it in the center of the stage. Straddling the chair backwards, backside on full display, thighs splayed and knees bent at perfect 90 degree angles. Then he pushed his ass out, twerking it. The spectators went insane; cheering, hollering, tossing bills onto the stage because Latts never got close enough to the edge for it to be shoved into his waistband.  
Suddenly, Latts turned to face the audience again, ass in the chair and legs straight up in the air. Tom caught a glimpse of cock and balls in the gap of the jockstrap and Latts's inner thigh. Cheeks flaming, and not solely from the alcohol, Tom pushed his hand more firmly on his own aching cock, trying to relieve some of the pressure. So much for alcohol being a downer; he was horny as fuck.

  
Bending nearly in half, Latts reached up to pull the left sock off his leg, and the right soon followed. Both being tossed aside in the general direction of the other articles of clothing. Now fully nude save for the jockstrap and gold chain around his neck, Latts stood up, kicking the chair out of the way. He moved to the edge of the stage; thighs, hips, ass, and that incredible upper body working in rhythm to tantalize and enchant his audience. On his hands and knees, Latts picked up one of the hockey socks with his teeth before slinking off the raised stage, looking at the birthday boy from under thick lashes. Then he was on him, practically leaping onto Tom’s lap, much to the delight of his drunk teammates. Tom might have gasped or moaned, he wasn’t sure; everything was too loud, he was too drunk, his ears felt like they were full of cotton.

  
Really, the only sensation that mattered was this overwhelmingly sexy, mostly naked man grinding against his hard-on. Latts draped the socks around Tom’s neck, drawing him closer, dancing on his lap. Faces so close Tom could lean in and lick the sweat dripping from Latts’s neck, but he doesn’t because that’s borderline creepy. Still straddling him, Latts rolled his body up into a standing position over Tom. The chirps and whistles from his teammates became louder, suggestive, as Latts grinded on him, squatting to thrust his crotch in Tom’s face. Tom laughed as Ovi, Greenie and Schmidty shoved dollar bills into the stripper’s jockstrap, and Latts smirked, an adorable dimple cratering his left cheek. Something flipped inside Tom’s chest; what was in those shots anyway?

  
All too soon, Latts slid off Tom’s lap and leapt back onto the stage in an easy show of athleticism to begin gathering his discarded clothing. Of course, he wiggled his ass when he bent over, garnering hoots and hollers from the drunk crowd, but he did not immediately leave once he was done. Rather, Latts moved to centerstage again, standing with his back to the audience just out of arm’s reach from the edge. Tom was not sure if it was intentional or meant to tease, but he was so worked up right now that everything about this guy was making him hard. He had a full erection in his pants that required some attention. Little Tom was going to get some birthday action tonight, and big Tom knew exactly who was going to be the object of his fantasies.  
Without bending his knees, Latts leaned down to set his jumble of clothes on the floor at his feet, poking that beautiful round ass out before rolling his body back into an erect stance. Then he hooked his thumbs in the elastic band of the jockstrap, slowly pushing it down his thighs until he could step out of it. Dollar bills floated to the floor.

  
“Turn around!” someone shouted — probably Schmidty. He didn’t though, at least not fully. Glancing over his shoulder with a sly wink, Latts tossed the jockstrap into Tom’s lap then grabbed his clothes and walked his bare ass off the stage.

  
>< >< ><

  
Three days later and Michael still could not get that face off his mind; ardent eyes, sinful lips and that fucking cardboard Burger King crown on his head. Michael hated watching NHL hockey unless it was his hometown team, the Toronto Maple Leafs, but he had intentionally sat down to watch the Caps game last night in hopes of learning Birthday Boy’s name. And to get a glimpse of that face again. He had not been disappointed. The guy’s name was Tom Wilson, a fourth line enforcer who spent more time in the penalty box than he did on the ice; also known as a meathead who probably did not deserve to take up any more of Michael’s brain space or time. There was just something in those eyes he could not let go of. Still, he had a hard time reconciling hockey player Tom with the laughing, carefree birthday boy he had given an unplanned lap dance the other night.

  
An outburst of laughter interrupted his daydreaming, and Michael’s head snapped up from where he had been wiping down the bar. It was after ten on a Wednesday; all the regulars were gone. Who the fuck comes to a gay bar this late on a week night? Apparently, fucking Washington Capitals players looking for a good time. Michael rolled his eyes, but he recognized one of those faces. The one that had been filling his waking and sleeping hours was here, in real life, staring back at him across the counter. Michael swallowed down the bubble that had formed in his throat and tossed the rag under the bar.

  
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

  
Tom grinned, recognition sparking in his eyes, but before he could say anything his loudmouth friend piped in, “Hey! You’re that stripper from Wilso’s birthday. Where’s the sexy costume?”

  
“Shut up, Schmidty,” Tom jabbed his elbow into the guy’s solar plexus, turning apologetic eyes to Michael. “He’s a jackass.”

  
Michael’s cheeks flamed, either from the question or the object of his fantasies the past seventy-two hours saying actual words to him, but something about these guys made him defensive too. He was not really embarrassed about who or what he was until these hockey players, embodying every childhood dream he’d had before the accident, barged into his existence. Before he had even gotten started, his hockey career was over, and now in a cruel twist of fate he was entertainment for dudes he had once wanted to be. A way to find pleasure and show off their status, or maybe they were just experimenting; confused, sowing their wild oats before they would find some tall, tan, blonde supermodel to hang off their arm. He wasn’t anyone’s punchline though; not for Chris and his uptight lawyer friends and definitely not for these puckheads.

  
“Sorry, boys, I leave the sexy costumes for the weekends,” Michael smiled because he still had to be flirty and polite to the customers despite his personal feelings about them.

  
“That’s too bad,” the one they call Schmidty tsked. “We’ll have three Bud Lights and a date for this one, please.”

  
“Oh my god, Schmidty,” Tom groaned, staring at the floor and covering his face with a big palm. Michael wondered what that palm would feel like on his….nope. Work. He needed to work. Hockey school. Dreams. Yet, the red color creeping up Tom’s neck was distracting. Michael chuckled, playing along, but could not help thinking how adorable he was; the huge, strapping hockey player embarrassed by his own friends. On Tom’s other side, the older one with the mop of curls on his head just laughed and clapped his teammate on the shoulder. Tom could not grab his beer fast enough. The three men found seats at the bar, drinking and joking around like easy friends. The camaraderie of a hockey team was something Michael missed; something he envied.

  
He turned his back on them to continue wiping down the bar, but every so often his neck prickled, sensing someone was watching him. Those three were the only customers in the place. Michael stretched his neck and shoulders from side-to-side, trying to shake the feeling, but hoping it came across as indifferent to these virtual celebrities. Except that Michael could not help stealing glances, and he knew Tom was too because he caught him staring once or twice. The flush in his cheeks more from the alcohol now than from embarrassment, Tom smirked when their eyes met across the room. But that was it; no words. When Michael looked again, they were gone, leaving empty beer bottles and enough money on the counter to pay their bill twice over.

  
>< >< ><

  
Tom punched the wall beside his stall; the throbbing in his hand a distraction from the frustration, rage and adrenaline coursing through his veins. Tonight’s game was an absolute shit show. Their top lines suddenly forgot how to skate and forecheck, and no one could defend their zone worth shit because the Arizona fucking Coyotes were up five goals to nothing in the third period. Coyotes’ captain, Shane Doan, had been gunning for Tom all night, laying hard hits and playing dirty. He’d had enough. With less than ten minutes remaining in the game, Tom dropped the gloves, and the 40-year old Doan was no match for Tom’s agility and pent-up frustration. He was flat on the ice in seconds. They both received five minutes for fighting, but Tom also got the ten-minute misconduct for instigating. He was done for the night.

  
Truth be told, he has been off-kilter since his birthday. That damn sexy stripper kept invading his mind, throwing him off his game. He had been practically useless at afternoon skate the day after his birthday, which he blamed on a hangover. Honestly though, he had felt fine except for the unsolicited flashes across his brain of that hot face and sweet ass; like a movie he couldn’t turn off. He had even whiffed the puck on what was supposed to be an easy shootout shot attempt on Holtby, earning guffaws and chirps from the peanut gallery. Running into him again the other night had not exactly been providence since Nate and Willy had dragged him back to the club. The dude had looked just as good in normal clothes as he had stripping out of that skimpy hockey get-up while dancing on a stage. He was so alluring; shy, yet charming, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Tom would be lying of he said he hadn’t thought about those bow-shaped lips sliding along his dick; about wrecking that thick ass. Despite his job, Latts did not seem the type to just let a guy sleep with him then leave with no residual feelings or commitment.

  
The rest of the team traipsed into the locker room, battle-worn and defeated. Holtby was already half-undressed, chucking his equipment at his stall; long hair flying but otherwise silent and sullen. A few of the guys tapped their sticks against the back of his calves as they walked past, but everyone knew to just let him be for now.

  
“The fucking Coyotes,” Andre mumbled as he tossed his gloves and stick toward his stall next to Tom’s and began to undress. “I hate the fucking desert. Too hot, no water, fucking sucks. How do they have ice in fucking Arizona?”

  
“They play indoors, Andre,” Tom replied, and the Swede’s head snapped up to glare at his teammate. They were also roommates. The 19-year old rookie from Sweden had taken an immediate liking to Tom from the first day of training camp. He was funny and talkative when he wanted to be, full of energy and always smiling. And way less obnoxious than Nate. He was adorable as hell too, with a head full of curly brown hair and coffee-colored eyes. Tom also quickly learned he was very much into receiving attention, indiscriminately so.

  
“Hey, you dudes wanna go out tonight?” a half-naked Schmidty suddenly appeared behind them like a smiley pop-up book from hell, draping his arms across Tom and Andre’s shoulders. “Drown the loss in alcohol? Maybe see your boy, eh, Wilso?”

“Get outta here, asshat,” Tom shrugged off his friend, cheeks flaming, but his lips quirked up into a small grin.

  
“What?! You have boy and don’t tell me?” Andre pouted.

  
“No, but he wants the stripper,” Nate grinned.

  
“From your birthday? I still need to meet.”

  
Ok, never mind, Andre could be just as insufferable as Schmidty. Tom felt attacked, “Shut up, Schmidty.” Tom punched Nate in the shoulder. Andre kept insisting he wanted to meet the stripper. He needed to make sure this guy was deserving of Tom’s attention and time. Andre had not been allowed into the strip club because he was only nineteen, but he could probably go to the bar as long as he did not drink. Apparently, the Cockpit was only an actual strip club on the weekend. Tom wouldn’t mind seeing Latts again; that’s assuming he’s even working tonight, of course.

  
An hour later, managing to avoid the media that had crowded into the locker room, Tom, Andre and Nate were sitting at the bar; Tom and Nate drinking beers and Andre with a cherry vanilla Coke. The bar was crowded compared to the last time Tom, Nate and Willy were here, but it was a Friday night too. As the only gay bar in town, The Cockpit was a popular place for the young gay community in D.C. after all, where they could pick up or bring dates. A safe place without fear of outside judgment….or worse.

  
Tom had not seen Latts yet. The man behind the bar was one of the other strippers from his birthday. Gino? Gio? He was just as flamboyant offstage as on, so Tom figured that was just how he was. Like an Italian version of Ovi. Tom noticed how the Italian’s gaze had lingered on Andre when they ordered their drinks, and he continued throwing flirty glances at the seemingly oblivious Swede. Poor guy, Tom though briefly, knowing how it felt when his heart overruled his gay-dar.

  
“Where is he?” Andre kept craning his neck, looking around for someone he had never even seen, but he knew Tom’s type.

  
“God, could you be more obvious?” Nate pushed at Andre’s shoulder, forcing him fully back into his seat. As if Nate had much room to talk, Mr. Loudmouth.

  
“What?” Andre took a swig from his sugary drink. “If you like to look at him, why not look? How will he know you like him?”

  
It sounded so simple coming from the 19-year old lady killer — and apparently gay men had eyes for him, too. As an objectively good-looking man and professional athlete, Tom did not have to work too hard to get a date on any given night. He could turn on the charm then let the guy down easy at the end of the night or next morning, but this felt different. Tom felt different about this one; shy and nervous, like one wrong move could destroy any chance he might have had.

  
“I’m not even sure it’s a good idea,” Tom said out loud. “You know, like, he’s a stripper. Can you imagine the Deadspin stories? And the media would never ask about my hockey ever again once they got ahold of that juicy detail.”

  
Nate and Andre just stared at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head, or they could not believe the stupid coming out of his mouth.

  
“You are truly a dumbass,” Andre finally decided. Nate made a sound in agreement, sipping his beer. “Ovi will cut you if he heard right now.”

  
“We can’t all be like Ovi and not give a shit what literally anyone thinks,” Tom retorted.

  
“He’s not saying be Ovi because Lord knows one in this world is more than enough,” Schmidty piped in, jostling his teammate’s shoulder. “I think the point here, Wilso, is stop thinking so much. Deadspin sucks and life is too short to let the media dictate your actions. Go for what you want, man, follow your heart. If your heart wants a damn hot stripper who can make hockey gear sexy and an ass for days, then, like, get on that.”

  
Tom sighed, downing the last of his beer before responding, “I don’t — like — how do I….find him?”

  
Andre grinned, “I have idea.” He snatched the bottle from Tom’s hand and flagged down the bartender. Grooming his wild curls into submission as best he could and undoing the top two buttons of his shirt, Andre pouted a little and turned on his bedroom eyes as the bartender — Gio, Tom decided — approached. “Hi, my friend need another drink, please,” Andre flirted, dangling the empty bottle between his thumb and index finger.

  
“Sure, and what do you need?” Gio leaned on the counter to bring his face close to Andre’s, taking the bottle as his eyes raked over the Swede’s body.

  
“Oh my god,” Tom muttered, rolling his eyes because Andre was shameless and ridiculous. Nate was no help; just watching the teenaged Swede work his magic with that huge delighted grin and wide eyes. Andre’s accent suddenly became thicker.

  
“You seem like kind of man is easy to fall for, but, to be honest, I’m not looking for serious. My friend over here though, he really like Latts, so maybe you help him find? Could be true love.” A small cock of his head combined with the eager innocence in those brown eyes and Andre had the Italian completely under his spell. Tom felt bad for the poor guy because he had fallen victim to that look before. It was almost like being drunk; a warm fuzzy feeling in his belly, a dizzy head, and the inability to say no to Andre’s pretty face. Based on the gooey expression on Gio’s face, he was not immune.

  
“Mmhmm, well, he’s in the back. He’s dancing tonight. Besides working here, I know he teaches kids how to play hockey down at the community ice rink or something,” Gio answered, grabbing another beer for Tom from the ice bucket under the counter, but his gaze never left Andre. They continued to flirt. Tom only heard the part about Latts teaching hockey to kids. That was just so damn cute, and half-explained his stripper costume. The guy played hockey. That was some common ground Tom could work with.

  
>< >< ><

  
“Hey, Mikey, looks like you got a visitor,” Halmz called out from across the ice. Michael looked up from where he was working on face-offs with a few of the older boys, and sure enough, there he was. Number 43 for the Washington Capitals himself, one hand in the pocket of his board shorts and the other waving shyly. Of course, most of the kids knew who he was and began gravitating toward him as if he was the sun and they the worlds that revolved around him. Because why wouldn’t they? Tall, handsome, famous, rich, hockey player; he was everything these kids wanted to be. The stuff dreams are made of and the reason why they work so hard from such a young age. Halmz and the other instructors called the kids back to continue running drills.

  
“Okay, guys, keep working on the stances I showed you,” Michael instructed his group of kids, “I’ll be right back.” He skated over to the entrance, turning his right skate to stop in front of the visitor. “You know you can’t just keep showing up at places where I work. That’s borderline stalking.”

  
The tall hockey player just smirked, eyes lazily taking in Michael’s fully-clothed form, and yet he never felt so exposed. Michael suppressed the urge to cross his arms over his chest, as if that would shield him from leering eyes. Instead, he lifted himself to his full height on skates, which was still not as tall as this giant in front of him, and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

  
“What do you want? I’m a stripper, not a prostitute, so if that’s what you’re looking for—,”

  
“Whoa, hey man, no!” Tom protested, cutting him off, looking around to make sure none of the kids were within earshot. “Who the hell do you think I am?”

  
“I don’t know who you are, but your actions have screamed ‘stalker’, so, you know, can’t be too careful.”

  
“God, are you always like this? We were at the bar last Friday night and, uh, Gio said you work here, so I just thought maybe you’d want to go to a hockey game?”

  
“Gio, that rat,” Michael muttered, but there was barely any heat behind his words.

  
“In his defense, my friend Andre was flirting with him and people tend to tell him their deepest, darkest secrets. He could probably get prisoners at Guantanamo to talk just by smiling and batting his eyes.”

  
Michael found himself chuckling at that, relaxing his stance a bit and leaning on the hockey stick still in his hand, “Yeah, well, Gio is always a sucker for a pretty face.”

  
Tom smiled, running a hand through his hair, making some of it stand straight up. Michael wondered if maybe he was the sucker for a pretty face because he could not help the stutter of his heart. Just looking at this man was painful; Tom could break his already fragile heart so easily, but Michael couldn’t stop wishing and wanting.

  
“You never answered my question,” Tom was saying.

  
“Huh?” Michael asked dumbly. Tom grinned again.

  
“Do you want to go to a Caps game? I could get you in for free.”

  
“And how are you able to do that?”

  
Tom’s smile faltered, but only slightly. He looked more confused than upset, “You—you don’t know who I am?”

  
“Yeah, the guy I gave a lap dance to on his twenty-first birthday and now he won’t leave me alone,” Michael lied.

  
Tom looked downright shocked, “Tom Wilson? I play for the Capitals?”

  
“I’m a Toronto fan,” Michael shrugged, “born and bred, so….”

  
There was a pause as Tom stared, open-mouthed, trying to process this new information. He seemed almost relieved that Michael claimed to have no idea who he was.

  
“Yo, Mikey, stop flirting and get back to work, man!” Halmz called out.

  
“Here, give me your phone,” Michael took the hockey glove off his right hand and tucked it under his other arm. Tom placed his phone in Michael’s outstretched palm. A few quick swipes of his thumb and he was handing it back. “There. Now you have my number. Text me your next home game, and we’ll see.” Despite the traitorous hammering of his heart in his ears, Michael managed to skate away, hoping it came off nonchalant.

  
The kids had twenty minutes of class remaining, which were reserved for free play. Usually, the kids wanted to play a scrimmage game against their teachers. Twenty kids to four adults was hardly fair, but it was always fun, and the adults did not make it easy for the students.

  
“You know Tom Wilson, Mr. Mike?” Jenny, one of the younger girls in the group but already an exceptional goalie, asked, green eyes wide. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  
Michael laughed, “No, sweetheart, we’re just friends.”

  
“Really? Do you think he could get Holtby’s autograph? My daddy says you have to have lotsa money to get glass seats or meet players, so we always sit waaaaay up because it’s cheaper. But I can still see Holtby real good. He’s the best goalie, Mr. Mike.”

  
Heart breaking for this little hockey fan who just wanted to meet her idol, Michael tapped her helmet and promised, “I’ll see what I can do. But right now, you gotta focus on keeping us adults from scoring on you.”

  
“Oh, you’re on, Mr. Mike!” Jenny’s green eyes lit up, “Can’t get anything past me. I’m a brick wall. That’s what my daddy calls Holtby.”

  
“We’ll see about that, Little Miss Brick Wall.”

  
Jenny did allow two goals, but by the end of twenty minutes, Halmz was no match for her in goal. He was a forward, not meant to guard the net. None of the instructors were goalies, so they usually rotated. The kids had three goals to the adults’ two, and they definitely took advantage of their bragging rights as their parents came to pick them up.

  
“So what was up with the hockey player?” Halmz skated up beside Michael as they were picking up the pucks and nets after all the kids were gone. Michael had told him about the Washington Capitals coming to the club, then Tom and his friends being at the bar a few days later. Halmz was suspicious of them from the start, but he did not really trust any rich or high society people. He had hated Chris from the beginning and made it well-known to Michael. Unfortunately, he had also been right. Michael refused to think the worst of people without sufficient evidence.

  
“He invited me to a Capitals game….on him,” Michael carried the bucket of pucks to the bench, then sat down to take off his skates. Several of the kids had crashed into his legs during the scrimmage, torquing his knee, and now it was throbbing. Halmz brought in the nets, noticing Michael massaging his bad knee.

  
“You okay, man?”

  
“Yeah, knee hurts a little. I think I’ve just pushed it too hard lately,” Michael waved off his friend’s concern. Between dancing on the weekends, teaching hockey five days a week, and now playing in a hockey rec league, along with working out, his knee was taking a lot of abuse recently.

  
“You need some ice or something?”

  
“Naw, I’ll be fine. I just need to sit for a minute.”

  
Halmz plopped onto the bench beside him, “So you gonna go to a game?”

  
Michael thought for a moment, then shrugged, “Yeah, probably, why wouldn't I go to a free hockey game? I mean, I put it back in his court. He has to text me first.”

  
“You like him then?”

  
“Well, yeah, I mean, I don't know him at all really, but I like what I see so far. It’s not like I have to marry him. I’m gonna take it slow for now.”

  
“Mikey….” Halmz sighed, “we both know you don’t do slow or half-assed relationships very well. You deserve so much better, and I just can’t watch you fall apart again if it doesn’t work out.”

  
“I know, I know,” Michael stared out across the empty rink, but the scratched up ice and dusting along the boards where skaters kicked up loose snow were evidence that the rink had been filled with people — laughing kids and adults — just moments ago. “But I can’t let this one go, Halmz. There’s just something about him that makes my heart go crazy and my insides feel like they’ve been rearranged. It’s sickening, really, but I can’t….he just won’t leave my mind. And he already knows what I do, so that doesn’t seem to be a problem for him.”

  
“Not yet anyway,” Halmz muttered, kicking at the floor. “Chris said he was fine with it too, and look how that turned out. Why do all the uppity assholes hit on you? Why can’t you just find a normal, steady, boring, nine-to-five dude who will actually love you until death do you part?”

  
“Guess I’m just not meant for boring and steady,” Michael leaned into his friend to bump their shoulders together. “You’re a good friend, Halmz, and I know you worry because you care, but you don’t have to protect me all the time. Broken hearts heal eventually. I’ll be fine. Maybe this one won’t end in a broken heart this time. I don’t know, but I can’t not take a chance, you know? Not everyone gets a sweet, beautiful baby mama like you.”

  
Halmz smiled, eyes going soft at the mention of his girlfriend Sarah and their 1-year old baby girl. Their child had been unplanned, but when Halmz’s girlfriend had told him she was pregnant and keeping the baby after only six months of dating, Halmz could not abandon her or their kid. They were the loveliest little family Michael had ever met, so obviously Halmz made the right choice. She made him more responsible, happier, settling the former party boy. When their daughter was born, Michael had never seen Halmz more content. Except now he was on a quest to find Michael someone who will make him as happy and fill his days with love.

  
“I don’t think a baby mama would make you happy anyway,” Halmz remarked, grinning.

  
Michael laughed, “You’re not wrong.”

  
He did not have to work at the bar that night, so Michael went home to ice his knee and take it easy because he did have a game tomorrow and had to be able to dance on Friday and Saturday night. Walter knew something was wrong when his master laid out on the couch and turned on the T.V. rather than taking him for their usual run. The big dog whined and nudged his nose against Michael’s leg.

  
“Sorry, buddy,” Michael scratched Walter’s ears, “no run tonight. Daddy’s broken.” Walter whined again but refused to leave his master’s side. Placing the Ziploc bag of ice on the throbbing part of his knee and elevating his leg on the arm of the couch, Michael mindlessly watched sports highlights and continued petting Walter. He hated being inactive like this. Michael rarely watched T.V., much preferring to be outdoors; hiking, running, swimming, skating, hanging out with his friends. Usually, he was at the bar to watch basketball, baseball or hockey games, but sitting on the couch and watching T.V. made him feel lazy. Even if he had to do it for the sake of his bum knee. He had at least been folding laundry when he watched that Capitals game last week.

  
Then his phone buzzed with a text message. Pulling the phone from his back pocket, Michael saw the message was from an unknown number and his heart beat picked up. He opened the message:

  
_Hey. This is Tom. We have a game on Thursday. 7p.m. against_  
_Nashville. Should be exciting. Can you come?_

  
If nothing else, Michael gave this guy points for persistence. He thought ahead to his work and rec league schedules, then responded:

  
_Yeah. I’m free._

  
In a fleeting moment of bravery he sent a second message:

  
_I have a beer league game tomorrow if you want some cheap_  
_entertainment. We play at 7 at Fort Dupont. BYOB._

  
Barely a minute later came Tom’s reply:

  
_Sure. Sounds fun._

  
>< >< ><

  
After icing, a couple Advil, and not skating with the kids during camp today, Michael’s knee felt great, but he was seriously wondering what the hell he had been thinking when he invited a professional hockey player to his beer league game. The only thing he could come up with as he laced his skates was that pain must have clouded the rational part of his brain. As team mascot, Walter always came to games and had free reign of the bench. Chris had hated it, claiming all the bodies and skates flying around were going to injure the dog, but almost four years later and Walter had never suffered a hockey-related injury. The whole team loved him and watched out for him. Plus, their superstitious asses would be pissed if Walter ever missed a game.

  
“Who’s a pretty boy, huh, who’s a pretty boy,” Halmz cooed at the dog while ruffling his short fur. Walter panted, tongue lolling out of his mouth happily, clearly enjoying the love. Fully dressed in his hockey gear, Michael straightened up as the rest of the guys on the team piled into the bench, all in various stages of being dressed for the game. They ruffled Walter’s fur and slapped their palms on Michael’s and Halmz’s shoulder pads in greeting. Scanning the stands, Michael did not see Tom. He wasn’t sure if he felt disappointment or relief, but the game has not started yet either.

  
“How’s your knee?” Halmz asked after Walter wandered off to beg for more love from their teammates.

  
“It feels fine. Like new. Well, you know, as new as my bum knee can feel,” Michael answered. “I iced it and laid on the couch last night.”

  
“Mmm, I bet that was awful for you.”

  
“The worst. Poor Walter didn’t get his run. I was so bored.”

  
“Yeah, you need to chill sometimes, man.”

  
“I invited Tom tonight,” Michael said hurriedly.

  
Halmz paused as if he was processing this information, then asked, “Is he coming?”

  
Michael shrugged and stood on his skates, ready to hit the ice for opening face-off, “He said he would.”

  
The game began and Michael did not have time to think about Tom again. Their opponents were from the Georgetown Gym; most of them super buff with something to prove but not much hockey finesse. So Michael and his team were being beat up pretty good, but they were also ahead three goals by the end of the first period. A chorus of ‘good job, Mook’ and helmet taps sounded on the bench when their 6-foot-6, three hundred pound goaltender skated back for the first intermission.

  
“They’re fuckin’ gonna hurt someone,” Mook doused his face and hair with water before squirting some into his mouth as well. “So fuckin’ dirty.”

  
“But they suck. Can’t shoot for shit, so D just kill them and we get puck to Mike and Halmz. They score,” Jaromir, the Czech mechanic and defenseman who cuts all the sleeves out of his jerseys because they ‘slow him down’, inserted. Good thing their beer league had very few rules, especially when it came to dress code.

  
“Uh, ok, well, that’s a, um, terrible idea, Jaromir, because you are all literally fifty pounds lighter than those gym rats,” Halmz pointed out.

  
“Except Mook,” Billy piped in. He was a painter. Michael had met Billy when he was hired to paint the condo Michael had shared with Chris. Though that did not last, his friendship with Billy had. They bonded talking hockey while the condo was being painted. The dude has definitely inhaled far too many paint fumes, but he was a hell of a painter and the best forechecker on the team.

  
“Yes, because he’s the goalie and he better not hit anyone unless they’re in his crease,” Michael said, shooting their short-tempered goalie a warning look. “I think the better strategy is to just keep playing the way we have been. They’re gonna wear themselves out eventually, and we'll have at least nine goals by the end of the game.”

  
Halmz elbowed Michael in the ribs, “Look who’s here.” He nodded in the direction of the stands where Tom was sitting front row behind the glass in line with the face-off circle. He looked good in a grey Top Shelf Hockey hoodie and dark jeans, and he gave a small wave when their eyes met. Michael smiled before turning his attention back to his friend as if they needed to work out strategy for period two rather than talk about Tom.

  
“How long has he been here?” Michael leaned in to ask.

  
Halmz shrugged, “I just noticed him, but I haven’t been paying attention.”

  
“The hot dude that can’t take his eyes off Mikey?” Mook asked. Michael blushed. “He’s been here since about two minutes after the game started.”

  
“He look like Capitals player,” Jaromir commented. “New boyfriend, Mikey?”

  
“No!” Michael protested too quickly. “I don't know.”

  
“Well, good job if you figure out,” Jaromir saluted with his water bottle. Then the second period was starting.

  
Their ragtag team did end up scoring nine goals and kept the over-muscled gym rats at bay. Michael was right; all their hitting wore them down by the middle of period two, and Michael and his team ran away with the game. As they celebrated the victory, Michael glanced across the ice and saw Tom’s wide smile. He gave a dorky victory pump of his fist. Michael laughed, then Mook and Halmz were on him and he was swept up into the group hug. As they undressed in the locker room, the boys made plans to go out for pizza and drinks.

  
“You in, Mikey?” Halmz tossed a ball of used hockey tape that smacked Michael in the forehead. As much as he loved going out with the boys and team bonding and all that, Michael really wanted to try for some alone time with that tall hockey player who could not seem to leave him alone.

  
“Sorry, dudes, I’m out. Got other plans tonight.”

  
Michael’s admission was met with whistles and catcalls.

  
“Plans with the hottie?” one of the twins — Gordo, he thinks — teased, snapping a towel at his ass. More hoots and hollers, and Michael rolled his eyes, grabbing his own towel. After quickly showering and putting on his street clothes, Michael grabbed his gym bag and stick, calling for Walter to follow him.

  
“See ya, boys!”

  
A chorus of ‘see ya, Mikey!’, ‘good luck, Latts!’, ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’ ushered him out of the locker room. When he saw Tom leaning against the wall opposite the locker room door, his pulse raced and his face split into a grin.

  
“Hey,” Tom pushed off the wall when he saw Michael and Walter. “You want help with anything?”

  
“Naw, I got it. Thanks though,” Michael hiked the gym bag higher on his shoulder. Walter pushed past him, tail wagging vigorously, sniffing around Tom’s feet then whining and jumping up to place his front paws on Tom’s chest. “Whoa! Hey, Walter! Down, boy!”

  
Tom just laughed, adjusting his weight to accommodate the big dog practically leaping on him. He grabbed Walter’s paws, gently lowering him back down on all four legs, then leaned over to pet the huge animal. That dog was such as attention whore; Michael bet he wouldn’t know the difference between a friend and an attacker until it was too late. He was the worst.

  
“Sorry about that,” Michael apologized, “he’s so rude. I raised you better than that, Walter.”

  
“No, it’s fine,” Tom scratched at Walter’s ears before petting along his back. Of course, Walter soaked up the attention. “He’s great. Such a beautiful dog.”

  
“Yeah, well, don’t let him hear you say that too much. It’ll go to his head.”

  
Tom chuckled again, and Michael was sure it was the best sound in the world; deep and throaty, it sent spikes of want straight to his heart. After a few more pets, Tom straightened again, smiling wide at Michael.

  
“Good game tonight, Latts.”

  
“Thanks,” Michael blushed, “ and, um, you can call me Michael.”

  
“Ok, good game, Michael,” Tom emphasized his name, grinning. Michael changed his mind; his name coming out of Tom’s full lips was the best sound in the world.

  
“I mean, we’re no pro team but we do pretty well.”

  
“Are you kidding me? You could skate circles around some of the ‘professionals’ I’ve seen. Did you ever think about going pro?”

  
Hoping the pain did not show on his face, Michael averted his gaze, gesturing to his wrapped knee, “Yeah, but, you know, wasn’t meant to be.”

  
“Oh shit, sorry, I didn’t—,”

  
“It’s ok. You didn’t know; couldn’t have known. I’ve made peace with it, and I love those guys. Love my team.”

  
“Well, you guys definitely had the number of those ‘roid heads.”

  
Chuckling, Michael shrugged, “Well, ya know, they may be jacked, but not so smart….or fast. And Mook really is the best goalie in the league.”

  
Clearing his throat, Tom shuffled on his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets, “Hey, um, are you—do you wanna do something? Like right now?”

  
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Michael responded after a brief pause. Just to make sure he actually heard those words correctly.

  
“Ok, great, um, we can take my truck….or yours, if you want,” Tom gestured to the bag and hockey stick still in Michael’s hand.

  
“No, it’s fine, we can take yours, but do you mind if I drop my truck off at my apartment?”

  
As he pulled out of the parking lot with Tom’s big fancy Escalade behind him, Michael began to regret the decision to allow Tom to follow him back to his shitty apartment. It was fine for him and Walter and within his budget, but what would Tom think? He probably had a fancy condo in Georgetown or something. The dude had to be making at least a couple million dollars a year. Chris had only made half that and their condo had definitely been upscale. Chris would never lower himself to so much as step foot on the side of town Michael lives on now.

  
He mentally kicked himself. Tom is not Chris. Quit assuming the worst and just be yourself. He couldn’t change his salary or where he lived, and Tom was going to find out eventually if this thing lasted. Plus, Michael already knew Tom was not like his ex because Tom actually showed up to his hockey game. Wearing a hoodie and American Eagle jeans no less. Chris never shopped anywhere below Saks 5th Avenue and god forbid he actually make time for a beer league hockey game.

  
Tom followed him into the shared driveway to his apartment building, but did not get out of the truck. Instead, he rolled down the window and stuck his head out to say, “Walter can come too.”  
With the dog on his heels, Michael quickly ran his stuff inside, dropping everything in the entryway. He grabbed Walter’s leash and a hoodie off the hook by the door. The sun was long set and though days were pleasant, early April nights in D.C. were chilly, and he had no idea where Tom was planning to go. Better to be prepared. He hurried back out to Tom’s waiting Escalade, opening the door to the backseat for Walter to climb in. Leather. Shit.

  
“Um, do you want me to put something on the seats?” Michael questioned, timid. “I mean, I just cut Walter’s nails so he shouldn’t put holes in your leather, but, you know, he’s still a dog. I don’t wanna—,”

  
“Dude, it’s fine!” Tom cut off Michael’s rambling, clearly amused. “Just get in the damn truck.” So he did; shutting the door to the backseat then climbing up into the passenger’s seat. Tom navigated out onto I-395 back the way they had come from the ice rink, but instead of continuing north he took the bridge across the river. The same way Michael would go to get to the club, and he quickly caught on to where Tom was headed.

  
“Are you taking me to Georgetown?” Michael teased, grinning and looking over at the handsome man beside him.

  
“You’ll see. Just shut up and enjoy the ride,” Tom responded, fingers tapping the steering wheel to the beat of whatever song was playing on the radio. Some upbeat pop hit Michael did not recognize, but he wasn’t much for Top 40 radio either. He glanced out his window watching the lights of the city and residential areas, the moon reflecting silver off the river. In the daylight, Washington D.C. was a strange landscape of historical buildings, monuments and colonial homes dotted among updated residences and contemporary stores, but at night it looked like every other American city. Michael hated cities, much preferring green grass, corn fields, woods and wide open spaces of the small town in which he was raised.

  
“So, you said you’re a Leafs fan?” Tom’s deep voice broke the silence. “Are you from Toronto?”

  
Michael shook his head, then realized that was stupid because Tom was paying attention to the road, “I actually grew up in St. Clements. My parents and brothers still live up there.”

  
“Ah, country boy, eh?” Tom smirked.

  
“What about you?”

  
“Toronto boy through and through. My dad was so disappointed when I got drafted by the Capitals, and he still refuses to cheer for the Caps when we play the Leafs. How’d you end up in D.C.?”

  
Michael flinched at the question, hands suddenly sweaty and fidgety in his lap. Because he was certain Tom had no interest in his sordid tale, so he just replied, “It’s a new hockey market. Great place to be able to coach the next generation hoping to get into the NHL.”

  
“So what’s with the stripping?” Tom blurted then immediately looked stricken. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that. That was rude.”

  
His face heated, looking out the window again, but Michael shrugged, “When you need money you do what you gotta do.” They were silent as Tom pulled the Escalade into a parking spot, and Michael knew they were near the water front in Georgetown. Walter jumped out of the backseat when the door was opened, and Michael grabbed the dog’s leash because as well-behaved as Walter is, an errant rabbit or strange new smells were still enticing.

  
“Is this a date, Tom Wilson?” Michael batted his eyelashes, bumping his shoulder into Tom’s side as they walked together.

  
“Naw, two dudes walking through Georgetown after dark? It’s totally normal,” Tom smirked. Side-by-side they strolled along the waterfront together, taking their time as if they had no where else to be; no where else they wanted to be. And Michael was surprised to realize it was true. Despite the butterflies fluttering in his belly, he felt totally comfortable with the man next to him, and he wanted to know him more. Of course, Walter had to sniff every plant, twig and new scent along the way, but he seemed fine with Tom. Not growling or suspicious of him at all. Michael was taking that as a good sign even if he was also aware of how friendly Walter was with just about everyone.

  
“How does a Toronto boy get drafted by the Capitals?”

  
“The usual way. There’s no Cinderella story here. My mom started me young because I had too much energy and she didn’t know what to do with me except strap skates on my feet, put a stick in my hand and let me go. And I just never stopped. Never wanted to do anything else, you know? The Caps drafted me in 2015 and here I am. Just trying to break into the top lines with the likes of Ovi and Backy.”

  
“Hmm, you made it to the show though. That’s more than what most Canadian boys can say.”

  
They walked in silence for several moments. Well, more like limping for Michael as he did his best to keep up with Tom’s long strides. His knee throbbed, but not stretching it out after such strenuous activity would be worse for him tomorrow.

  
>< >< ><

  
Tom had noticed Michael’s slight limp at the bar the other night, but it was definitely more pronounced after sixty minutes of playing hockey. He had not meant to pry earlier, but he really was curious how a dude who seemed to love hockey—and who is quite good as a player and leader—ended up stripping, bartending and coaching kids. Obviously, he did not expect Michael to spill his life story all at once. They barely knew each other after all, and Tom had always been drawn to the mysterious ones. Discovering the nuances and secrets of his partners and friends was half the fun of a relationship for him, and the angry pain that crossed Michael’s otherwise kind, happy face every so often was intriguing.

  
When Tom got him talking about his brothers and the mischief they would get into as kids, Michael seemed to relax. They went about a mile in a loop along the waterfront and through the quiet streets of Georgetown, keeping up a steady stream of conversation about their families, interests and hockey. Being with Michael reminded him of home, and as much as he loved D.C. and Georgetown, Tom became wistful for his city 482 miles north.

  
>< >< ><

  
“God, I miss home,” Tom breathed out. Michael wasn’t sure he was even meant to hear it because Tom’s eyes darted to look over at him, grinning sheepishly. “I love it here, but it’s not Toronto.”

  
Michael nodded, “Nothing really is.”

  
It was midnight when Tom pulled the Escalade into the driveway of Michael’s apartment building. Walter was asleep across the backseat, and Michael made no move to exit the vehicle.  
“So, um, I had a good time tonight,” Michael stuttered out, raising his eyes to see Tom’s blue ones fixed on him.

  
“Yeah, me too,” Tom grinned, and Michael thought his heart would just right out of his chest. It beat a dizzying cadence in his ears. He wondered if Tom could hear it too, but then a warm palm at the nape of his neck was pulling him in. Tom’s soft, plush lips were on his, rubbing sensuously, making everything else flee his mind. Someone moaned—maybe it was him, but it was hard to tell and Michael wasn’t even sure he cared right now. Tom Wilson was kissing him!

  
Hands fumbled awkwardly as Michael turned in his seat so he wasn’t craning his neck, but eventually his palms found Tom’s thighs. Their lips collided again and again in sweet brushes, like promises of what was to come….but not yet. Tom’s mouth closed over Michael’s full bottom lip, tugging as he pulled back for air. Taking in ragged breaths as if he too was struggling to maintain composure.

  
“You take all the boys to Georgetown then kiss in your car and say it’s not a date?” There was a teasing lilt to Michael’s tone, but he also really needed to know before his stupid heart lead him into another trap.

  
“Not all of them. Just the hot stripper I might wanna date.”

  
Tom’s smile was fucking devastating. Michael leaned in to kiss it right off of him. These kisses were hungry, edging on desperation. Without permission, Tom’s hands slipped up under Michael’s shirt to press against his solid abdomen; pushing boundaries as far as he could until he either got what he wanted or was made to stop. Michael imagined this handsome hockey player didn’t hear no too often, and that same tenacity is probably what landed him in the NHL. He should say no, push Tom’s hands away and call it a night. Except it felt so good to be touched, to be desired sexually and not by some poor woman’s confused husband or lonely gay men just trying to get their rocks off.

  
At some point, Tom moved his seat back and hauled Michael across his lap so he could spread kisses down his jawline to his throat. Michael gripped Tom’s broad shoulders, tipped his head back; all the invitation Tom needed to nip and suck at his neck until bruises began to form. The car filled with steam and the lusty sounds of two men making out. Michael pressed his lower body into Tom’s to let him feel what he was doing to him. Tom was just as hard, pants tented against Michael’s crotch.

  
His hands continued to roam, kneading Michael’s pecs, trailing down his sides, fingers skimming across his belly. A shiver went up Michael’s spine. Then Tom’s lips were back on his, and Michael opened his mouth for their tongues to slide together. A distraction; because suddenly Tom’s hand was in Michael’s pants, gripping tight around his cock.  
“Tom!” It was supposed to be a warning but came out more of a gasping moan.

  
“Hmm?” Tom moaned into Michael’s neck, teeth nipping at the tender flesh under his ear. “Wanna make you feel good, Latts. Let me.”

  
Latts: his fucking stripper name. Somehow it sounded like an oath falling from those swollen lips, and he was weak for a pretty face and clever tongue. Michael pushed his hips forward, cock sliding into the calloused hand wrapped around it. Tom jerked Michael’s cock while his tongue fucked his mouth. The soft sounds coming from Michael’s throat went straight to Tom’s own cock. By now he was painfully thick in his pants. He took Michael’s wrist and guided it to the bulge between his legs. Michael filled his palm with Tom’s denim-clad erection, squeezing, swallowing the groan the larger man emitted. Then he was undoing Tom’s jeans, palm sliding under the elastic of his underwear to find out just how big and thick the hockey player was.

  
On every downstroke, Tom’s fingers brushed against Michael’s full balls, the pressure in his lower body becoming almost unbearable. At the same time, Michael jacked Tom’s cock faster. Both men came with cries of pleasure. Withdrawing his hand, Tom brought their foreheads together as they recovered from their orgasms.

  
“Oh fuck,” Michael whispered, licking his lips and chest heaving, then his eyes went wide as he remembered. “Walter.” Tom chuckled, pressing his lips to Michael’s nose, his cheekbones, tilting his chin up to capture his mouth in a short, sweet kiss.

  
“He’ll be fine, sweetheart,” Tom brushed the sweaty hair from Michael’s forehead. “He’s worn out, oblivious to the world.” Still, Michael climbed off Tom’s lap, rearranging his shirt and pants and running the hand not covered in cum through his tousled hair. Tom handed him a tissue to wipe off his hand, but there was nothing he could do about the wet spot in his lap. Reaching into the backseat, Michael gently shook his dog awake, petting Walter’s back to keep him calm as he woke up in an unfamiliar place.

  
“Ok, um, well, thanks again. This was, uh, fun,” Michael opened his car door.

  
Tom grabbed his hand before he could exit the Escalade, “I’ll see you tomorrow night, right? At the game? There’s two tickets for you and a friend at the box office.”

  
“Yeah, I’ll be there. Good night, Tom.”

  
“Night, Michael. Sweet dreams.”

  
>< >< ><

  
“Oh my god, why have you been keeping this sport from me? All these beautiful asses!” Gio had a grip on Michael’s shirt as his wide, interested eyes scanned the Capitals and Predators warming up before the game. Michael thought ‘jaw-on-the-floor’ was a stupid cliche, but Gio looked kind of stupid with his mouth hanging wide open. Like a kid going to the fair for the first time with all the candy, popcorn, caramel apples, games and rides there for the taking; trying to decide where to start yet wanting it all at once. As a fellow hockey player, Halmz had been Michael’s first choice for a plus one. He would actually understand and enjoy the game for the hockey rather than the asses, but alas, Halmz had date night with his girl. All Michael had to say was Andre would be there, and Gio immediately dropped all the excuses he most certainly had on the tip of his tongue.

  
Even though his personality and stage persona was….well….out there—big, loud, colorful, flamboyant—Gio left his red go-go boots at home for a pair of Italian loafers that probably cost what he made in a month and were presumably a gift from one of his many paramours. He looked comfy yet still capable of turning heads in his dark fitted jeans and grey Henley unbuttoned at the neck. Of course, his dark hair was styled to perfection and he had on foundation and eyeliner. He looked like he should be posing for a Caravaggio painting rather than attending a hockey game.

  
“Gio, I literally ask you every week if you want to come to my hockey games and you always have some lame excuse about how sports are stupid and you have some fancy new ass in a business suit just waiting to get into you and spoil you rotten,” Michael extricated himself from his friend’s grasp. Then Gio spotted Andre and he squealed, fingers digging into Michael’s thigh.

  
“He’s so cute in his little uniform! I wanna just tear it off him with my teeth.”

  
Michael rolled his eyes, “He’s barely legal, Gio, and I’m pretty sure he’s straight.”

  
“That’s what makes it so hot,” Gio muttered, his eyes not leaving the skating players on the ice. Michael couldn’t disagree with him there as his gaze locked onto number 43 stickhandling the puck away from number 88, laughing as he took it to the net with one fluid motion of his arms. Despite being huge, all long arms and legs with a penchant for fighting, Tom was smooth with the puck on his stick, powerful legs pushing him across the ice with ease and grace.

  
Their seats were only four rows behind the Capital’s bench, allowing them to be close to the action but also having a decent view of the entire ice. Tom stopped in front of the bench, grabbing one of the dozens of Gatorade bottles on the ledge and squirting the contents into his mouth. Then he glanced up and winked before skating off again. Michael blushed, watching him go as warmth bloomed in his chest.

  
“Oh Jesus, you two fucked already,” Gio was staring at him, watching the red creep up Michael’s neck and cheeks.

  
Michael grinned, dipping his face to avert his gaze, “In his Escalade.”

  
Gio faux-gasped, “Mikey, you dirty slut! I’m so proud. My baby boy is growing up.”

  
Michael laughed, playfully shoving at his dramatic friend and settling back into his seat to watch the rest of warm-ups. Every time Andre skated past, Gio smiled, batting his eyes and wiggling his fingers at him in a kind of come-hither wave. The teenager laughed, his handsome face open and eager as he flirted right back, blowing kisses.

  
The Capitals beat the Predators 2-1. Tom did not score a goal, but he prevented one. Holtby had made a diving save, but the Preds got the rebound and shot at the net again. Tom burst into action, putting himself in the crease between the net and the flying puck. The home crowd went wild, and Michael saw the wide grin on Tom’s face as he skated back to the bench. His teammates giving out stick taps and congratulatory chirps, which Tom reveled in as he sat down. It seemed like the Preds’ captain, Mike Fisher, was gunning for Andre and Backy all night, laying hard hits on the much smaller players and whacking them with his stick at every opportunity. Near the end of the second period, Fisher cross-checked Andre too hard, sending him flying, his head hitting the boards as he crumpled to the ice. Fisher received a two minute penalty for boarding. Michael had to hold Gio back from charging down to the ice and giving the opposing bully of a player a piece of his mind, or just plain old knocking the smug captain in his ugly face.

  
Tom had fire in his eyes in the third period, protective of his young teammate and friend. He dropped the gloves with Fisher, and Michael had never seen anything so hot in his entire life. They knocked each other’s helmets off, hair flying like a damn shampoo commercial, fists landing anywhere they could reach, the more unprotected the better. Finally, Tom threw Fisher to the ice and the refs stepped in, but the two men kept jawing each other all the way to their respective penalty boxes. Gio turned wide eyes to Michael, a flicker of something like lust and maybe some healthy fear at the pure ruggedness of the display of testosterone he just saw.

  
“Oh my god, where has this sport been all my life? I’ve been missing out!”

  
After the game and obligatory press scrums, Michael and Gio were invited out with the team to celebrate the win. Still keyed up from his fight and the adrenaline rush of an exciting hockey game, Tom was bouncy and handsy, unable to stay in one place for too long. At the bar—some low-key dive with pool tables, a huge wooden bar, dim lighting and a jukebox in the corner—Tom draped himself over Michael, introducing him and Gio to his teammates. The guys were friendly, loud, chirping each other easily, always laughing, clearly happy for Tom and his new friend who was a boy. Michael loved them. Gio, of course, immediately found a way to be in Andre’s space, which the teenager didn’t seem to mind at all. He laughed at the sexy Italian’s jokes while sipping his Cherry Vanilla Coke.

  
A plastered Ovechkin, arm slung over a much more sober and long-suffering Backy, came up to Michael and Tom at the bar while they were working on their second round of beers. He clapped Michael on the shoulder and exclaimed, “You naked dancer from Tom’s birthday! You make Tom happy?”

  
“Yes, Ovi, but I’m sure there’s much more to him than that,” Backy dead-panned and looked at Michael. “I’m sorry, he’s rude even when he’s not drunk.”

  
Michael chuckled and glanced at the man hanging all over him. Tom’s grip across his shoulders tightened, gazing at him with buzzed, proud eyes, “He’s also a pretty damn good hockey player, and he teaches kids how to play, too.”

  
“I tell you he look like hockey player, Nicky. I know hockey player when I see, and sexy costume is giveaway.” Ovi looked so proud of himself as he beamed at the blonde Swede under his arm.

  
“Ok, Ovi, you’re right,” Backy patted his drunk captain’s chest. “Let’s go bother someone else, you big lush.”

  
They wandered off, and Tom laughed, burying his face in Michael’s shoulder. It was easy, to laugh and banter and….fall for this man who was a contradiction of earnestness, fortitude and perpetual giggles when intoxicated. The opening notes of Shania Twain’s “Man, I Feel Like A Woman” played from the jukebox and Michael looked up to see Gio with Andre in his arms, teaching him how to line dance. Schmidty and the younger guys playing pool whistled and laughed when Andre missed some steps. He was a quick learner though, and Gio was a great teacher. Pretty soon, they were holding hands, laughing and dancing together. When the song changed to a bass-heavy Cascada number that Andre obviously picked, he pulled Gio in closer and showed him how the Swedes dance; which apparently involved a lot of grinding and hip action.

  
“I thought you said Andre was embarrassingly straight,” Michael leaned into Tom’s side as they watched their two friends obviously flirting.

  
“I thought he was, but, you know, teenagers. Pretty sure the kid’s sexual orientation is sex,” Tom finished off his beer and leaned in again, bringing his mouth to Michael’s ear, voice low and seductive. “Speaking of, you have been driving me crazy all night. Every time I looked up to see you in the stands, your fucking perfect beautiful face lit up and happy. I’ve wanted to sink my teeth into those dimples every time you smile, and kiss those soft lips again, and I want to take your co—,”

  
“God, fuck, Tom, just take me home,” Michael cut him off on a groan; so goddamn easy for this man with the floppy hair and blue eyes. He blamed it on the alcohol. They paid their tab, told Gio to drive Michael’s truck back to his apartment and check on Walter, and said good night to the rest of the guys.

  
>< >< ><

  
Desperate, frenzied, stumbling into his condo, Tom kicked the door closed, lips never leaving Michael’s. He pushed him up against the kitchen island, smooth, cold granite digging into the small of Michael's back, but that was the least of all the sensations coursing through him. Tugging at Tom's shirt, pulling him closer, their tongues curling and licking into each other’s mouths and lips rubbing together as if they needed the other person’s air to live. Tom’s hands stroked through Michael’s thick hair before running down his sides and settling at his hips, grinding their bodies together. Both men groaned, so obviously turned on.

  
Tom kissed his way down Michael’s cheek and jaw. On a moan, Michael tipped his head back to allow full access to his neck, which Tom took. Mouth greedy and hot on Michael’s flushed skin, tongue peeking out to taste, desire pooling in his belly. They needed to get to the bedroom before Tom just fucked him on the kitchen counter and Michael deserved better than that for their first time. He deserved to be properly bedded, worshipped, appreciated.

  
“That fight was so hot,” Michael moaned, his hands roaming up under Tom’s T-shirt to smooth over the planes of his broad back. “God, I popped a boner so quick I’m sure the couple beside me noticed.”

  
Tom chuckled against Michael’s neck, gently sucking at the tender flesh under his ear before capturing his lips again, tongue swiping through his mouth. Luckily, the master bedroom was off the kitchen, about a meter away; easy enough for Tom to muscle them both in that direction. They quickly shed their clothes; shirts landing somewhere near the bedroom door, pants and underwear making a trail to the bed before they tumbled to the mattress. Michael landed on his back underneath Tom, legs spreading on instinct as their lips connected again.

  
Slow, leisurely, Tom’s mouth moved against Michael's, tongue pushing at the seam of his lips to coax them open, though it seemed Michael did not need much convincing. The weight of Tom settled into the cradle of his thighs felt so good, cock semi-hard and nestled against his inner leg, Michael realized the last naked man he’d had on top of him was Chris. Usually, he was the naked one—or mostly naked—in men’s laps for their carnal desires, their entertainment, being whatever they need him to be to fill some kind of sexual void in their own lives. Stripping was not about sex or pleasure for him, it was a means to an end. God, it felt so good to have Tom’s hands on him, thick body pinning him to the mattress, the flutter of desire spreading hot from his belly to his loins. He didn’t know if this was love, but he loved the sensations Tom incited.

  
Those big hands pushed through Michael’s soft dark hair as Tom’s tongue plundered his mouth, then he was palming Michael’s hard pecs, caressing and pinching his nipples into tight peaks. Michael gasped, arching his back to push into the touch, needing to be closer to the source of his gratification. Amazed at how hands built for strength and control, trained to fight and inflict pain could also be so gentle yet firm, giving only pleasure. Tom smoothed his hands down Michael's torso, fingers grazing over the ridges of his abs, the V of his pelvis, then Tom was holding the weight of Michael's hard cock in his hand. Michael moaned, eyelids fluttering at the overwhelming desire.

  
“Your body is so fucking perfect,” Tom murmured, looking down at the man underneath him. “So beautiful.” Michael’s eyes dark and half-lidded, gazing back up at him eager and hungry; unreserved for the first time since Tom met him. He wanted to take a picture of this moment. The sheer want on Michael’s handsome face was all for him; what a heady realization. These were not the guarded, flirty eyes Michael batted at his clients to make them feel desired for pay. Rather, these eyes were honest, trusting and lusty, beseeching Tom to have his way with him.

  
Tom spread the clear slick around the head of Michael's cut cock, thumb sliding into the slit. He was just as Tom had imagined from the glimpse he had gotten on his birthday; average in length but oh so thick. Exactly like he was everywhere else. Aided by the dribbling pre-cum, Tom’s fist stroked deliberate yet languid up and down the hard shaft. Michael groaned, hips bucking unconsciously. It had been too long; he knew he was going to come embarrassingly fast. Especially if Tom kept touching him like that; as if his cock was something precious, handle with care. Obviously, he knew it wouldn’t, but it was nice to think this incredibly hot hockey player might care about him. Maybe he was delusional, but no one had ever said Michael was smart, and he would do just about anything in this moment to keep Tom’s hands on him. But only a few strokes later, the firm pressure of Tom’s palm was gone.

  
“No, keep touching me,” Michael whined, eyes opening to see Tom reaching for the bedside table. His long, lithe body stretched out above Michael to grab a small bottle from the top drawer.

  
Tom chuckled as he settled back on Michael’s thighs, “Patience, baby, I’m gonna make you feel so good.” 

 

Michael thrilled at the pet name, long past the point of caring that he sounded like a wanton whore. It was about feeling, the sensations they invoked in each other, the give and take of two consenting adults. Which, like, Michael realized he should return the favor, but Tom’s weight was holding him in place. Tom hitched Michael’s legs up about his hips, allowing him full access to Michael's hole. He squeezed a generous amount of lube into his palm and coated his own cock before rubbing the rest of it around his lover’s entrance. Long, nimble fingers smeared cool gel over the rim, pushing past the tight ring of muscle. Tom watched Michael’s flushed face contort with pain then soften in pleasure as his body stretched around the invading fingers; his sweet bow lips open in an ecstatic “o”. Michael whimpered, then let out soft gasps and whines when Tom scissored two fingers inside before sliding his palm down Michael’s taint to grab at that luscious ass.

 

“Please just fuck me,” Michael moaned, hips canting up like an invitation, and Tom could not refuse such a request.

 

“Open your eyes, baby,” Tom demanded. “Look at me when I enter you.”

  
Michael obeyed, lifting his legs and holding his knees wide, completely stretched open for his lover. Vulnerable in a way he has not been since Chris went back on all the promises they had made. Gripping himself in one fist and bracing his other on Michael’s hip, Tom pressed the tip of his engorged cock to the slicked up hole, pushing in slowly. Michael’s half-lidded eyes darkened, brows knitted, but his gaze did not waver as he watched Tom’s face. Little gasping whines escaped his throat, Tom’s thick cock spearing him open, his greedy channel slick with lube and pre-cum accepting the penetration. Then Tom was in to the root, going still for a few moments to allow Michael’s body to adjust to his size before he began rutting his hips. Moaning, back arching, Michael licked his lips, keeping his lover’s gaze. Bracing his hands on the mattress, Tom leaned in.

  
“You’re such a tease,” he growled in Michael’s ear, taking the soft cartilage between his teeth and nipping lightly. He kept his cock seated deep inside Michael’s tight, hot channel, only rolling his hips slow and deliberate to make Michael feel every slight push and pull of the big cock filling him up. “The night of my birthday, you got me so worked up stripping out of that damn illegal hockey costume, and when you fucking jumped on my lap I almost came right then. I had to go home and fucking get myself off, but I was thinking about your face, your body, how good it would feel to be on top of you, inside you. Thinking about your tight ass split open on my cock made me come all over my hand.”

  
A desperate sound escaped Michael’s throat, hands clutching his lover’s thighs, urging Tom to go faster, harder, anything to stoke the painful-pleasurable fire in his belly and between his legs. A fire only made more intense by Tom’s dirty words. Then he was fucking into Michael; filling him with long, hard strokes.

  
“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, Tom, oh, right there, mmmm,” Michael keened when Tom angled slightly. Every thrust pushed Tom’s cock against Michael’s prostate. He dug his heels into Tom’s clenching ass, hands smoothing over the athlete’s hard chest, needing the friction of their bodies more than he needed his next breath. Reaching between their rutting bodies, Tom’s fist curled tightly around his lover’s cock, jerking it until Michael’s fingers twisted in Tom’s hair, tugging at the soft strands when he shattered. Cum spewed all over Tom’s hand and Michael’s stomach as his body quaked with the force of his orgasm before going boneless, satisfied, allowing Tom to find his release too. A few more stuttering stabs of his hips, then Tom fucked deep and Michael squeezed the muscles of his ass around that thick cock.

  
“Oh god, baby, I’m gonna come,” Tom groaned.

  
“Come in me,” Michael encouraged, hands still clutching Tom’s hair. “S’okay. I want you to come in me, Tom.”

  
His name falling from those sweet lips did him in, and Tom buried his face in Michael’s sweaty neck, biting at the tender flesh as he shot his seed deep into the sweet ass clutching at him. Michael spread light kisses down his face as Tom rode out his orgasm, cock pulsing out hot ropy cum, some of it escaping around the edges and running down into Michael’s crack. Pulling out, Tom gathered some of it with the tip of his cock then pushed it back inside Michael’s still-convulsing hole. Michael whimpered at the new onslaught on his over-sensitive skin, but he felt so good, satiated and lazy; thoroughly fucked and blissed out in a way he has not been for a long time.

  
Tom pulled out with a wet sound and dropped to the bed beside Michael, sighing contentedly. He threw one leg over Michael’s waist and nuzzled at his hair.

  
“I need a shower but I don’t wanna move,” Michael slurred. “God, I think you wrecked me.” Tom chuckled, a warm low sound rumbling through his chest against Michael's side. Tom’s teeth grazed over his lover’s ear, kissing his shoulder. Then he just laid on his side, taking in Michael’s beautiful, thick body, abs and belly puddled with sticky, drying cum. He decided he liked how Michael looked in his bed and wanted to keep him there.

  
“Stay here,” Tom patted Michael’s chest and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be right back.” Michael just hummed, eyes falling closed when Tom rolled out of bed. He emerged from the bathroom a couple minutes later, then Michael felt a wet warmth on his belly. Peeking his eyes open, he saw Tom wiping him off with a washrag, being gentle with his sensitive bits, dropping kisses every so often to his freshly cleaned skin. Michael melted again, wanting to cry at the care Tom was using with him. Eventually, Tom dropped the rag to the floor and crawled back up to the pillows, gathering Michael’s pliant body to his and spooning up against his back. He pulled the crumpled sheet over both of them.

  
“Thanks,” Michael mumbled. Tom kissed the back of his neck in response. After several moments of silence, Tom thought Michael had fallen asleep, but then he stirred. Or as much as he could with Tom’s big frame draped over him. “Tom? I should go….right? I should go.”

  
Tom’s heart dropped, instantly bringing down his amazing sex afterglow. Because he kind of thought what they just did meant something; it did to him. Something that involved words like staying and commitment and….fuck, what the hell was wrong with him? When did he become a goddamn ball-less sap? Fucking man up and tell him how you feel.

  
“No,” Tom’s embrace tightened, but then he realized how creepy that sounded. He didn’t want to keep Michael here against his will either. “Um, do you want to leave? You don’t have to. You can stay, Michael. I-I want you to stay….if you want that too.”

  
Turning his head to glance at Tom over his shoulder, Michael grinned sleepily, “Yeah, I want that too, ya goddamn sap.” It was confirmed; he was a sap. But Michael seemed okay with it and, really, his was the only opinion that mattered in that department.

  
>< >< ><

  
Tom woke up to an empty bed the next morning, panic clutching his belly until he saw their clothing from last night tossed haphazard at the foot of the bed. And he smelled coffee. Rubbing sleep from his eyes and throwing on a clean pair of boxers, Tom made his way out to the kitchen to see Michael standing in front of the brewing coffeepot. He looked deliciously rumpled and still half-asleep. He was damn sexy in one of Tom’s tank tops, which hung long and loose on the shorter man’s body. Tom gently touched Michael’s hip so as not to frighten him if he was actually sleeping standing up. When he got no response, positive or otherwise, Tom leaned in to press his lips against Michael’s cheek.

  
“Mornin’. Babe, you know the coffee doesn’t brew any faster staring dagger eyes at it,” Tom went to the counter, pulling two mugs off the wrought iron hooks hanging above the sink. Michael grunted, but only seconds later the machine was spitting the last of the steaming water into the filled carafe. Like lightning, Michael grabbed it, filling up the two mugs, then took a swig of the hot, caffeinated liquid. It was like a switch had flipped. He grinned as Tom went for the flavored creamer in the fridge. Eyes suddenly focused and alert watching Tom pour the sugary milk until his coffee was almost white.

  
“Want a little coffee with your creamer?” Michael teased, continuing to sip his dark, non-doctored coffee.

  
“Yes, yes I do,” Tom stared defiantly at the now-amused man across from him as he took a sip. “How do you drink that bitter shit?”

  
“I like my coffee like I like my men; hot and bitter.”

  
Tom cracked up at that, eyes crinkling in the corners; so completely charming and soft, Michael could not help but reach out and grab his face. He pulled him in for a gentle kiss, licking the sweet French Vanilla flavor from Tom’s lips.

  
“Mmm, it tastes so good from your mouth, but keep that sugary shit out of my coffee.”

  
“Makes your cum taste good though,” Tom grinned slowly at the flush suddenly creeping up Michael’s neck.

  
“So does fruit, so I’ll just stick to juicing, thank you very much. I’m a stripper, Tom, gotta keep all this looking one hundred and I’m not like you,” Michael gestured to Tom’s fit, bare torso. He did not sound angry but he wasn’t making eye contact anymore and the teasing lilt that had been in his voice was gone.

  
“What does that mean?”

  
Michael shrugged, “Means I’m not one of those lucky dudes who can eat or drink whatever he wants. I’ve worked hard for this body and still have to limit my alcohol and processed sugar intake to keep looking this way. My job is as much about outward appearance as it is about stamina and conditioning.”

  
Tom’s brain was scrambling trying to figure out how they went from light and flirty to Michael exposing his deep, dark secrets. There was time for that later, and they did need to have some serious discussions. Right now, he just wanted some eggs and a blow job before he had to be at morning skate in a few hours. Since avoidance was his forte, Tom set about grabbing the skillet from the cupboard beside the stove and turned on the front burner.

  
“You want some breakfast?” Tom took the carton of eggs out of the fridge and looked back at Michael. “I scramble a mean egg.”

  
“Yeah, sure, two please. No cheese,” Michael hopped up to sit on the island, legs dangling over the edge, sipping his still-steaming coffee and watching Tom work. Having a man make him a morning after breakfast is a sight he’s….well….never seen. Chris did not make breakfast….or lunch or dinner. In fact, he had never touched a stove or spatula in his life, Michael was sure, but to be fair Chris usually had to be at the office before the sun rose so they did not have lazy mornings like this. Being naive and in love, Michael had thought it was his job to do all the cooking and cleaning because Chris had been the primary breadwinner working sixty hours a week. It wasn’t until they had been living together for a year that Michael began to wonder if he was more Chris’s trophy wife than an equal partner.

  
“So, um, do you work or anything today?” Tom’s deep voice broke Michael from his reverie.

  
“Yeah, I have to be at the club by 8, but otherwise I’m free all day. What about you?”

  
“We have team skate at 11. Do you wanna, um….you can come.”

  
Michael grinned at the other man’s obvious nervousness, and his stomach flipped at the invitation to spend the day together. But as couple-y as all this seemed, Michael was all too aware how fickle men could be. So he tamped down his hopes, silently scolded his heart to chill, although the caffeine was not helping. On top of everything, Tom was a pro hockey player; always traveling, notorious for being man-whores—even some of the married ones—and constantly needing new thrills. Eventually, Tom would get bored or the media pressure of being with a stripper would become too much, and he would leave. It was a tale as old as time but there was a reason why it was told over and over again.

  
When the eggs were done, Tom hopped up on the counter beside Michael and they ate their breakfast side-by-side. Occasionally, Tom’s elbow brushed Michael’s arm or he would intentionally nudge Michael’s shoulder with his just because he could. They both smiled, content to be together in the moment. After rinsing their plates and mugs, Tom boxed Michael in against the counter, hands on his neck as they made out in the kitchen. Sweet morning kisses became heated and sloppy; tongues licking into each other’s mouths, lips bruising, teeth nipping. Tom’s hands slid down to find the meat of Michael’s ass, kneading and squeezing the thick flesh. He loved this ass. He could write poems about this ass.

  
They stumbled to the couch, where Michael pulled down Tom’s boxers and dropped to his knees. Tom groaned as those bow-shaped lips closed around his erection and Michael’s demure eyes looked up at him. God, he’s so hot! He ran his hands through Michael’s dark hair, tugging gently in appreciation of the hot, wet mouth bringing him to orgasm.

  
>< >< ><

  
**2 months later**

  
“Tom, where are you taking me?” Michael laughed and clutched his boyfriend’s hand as he was helped out of the Escalade and lead….well, he did not know where. Today was his 25th birthday, and he had received a text earlier that afternoon to put on something nice and be ready by 6. Somehow, Tom had managed to score reservations for the new sushi bar in Clarendon. Full of spicy tuna and salmon rolls, feeling loose after a couple glasses of the most expensive Riesling on the wine list, Michael had been happy and easily convinced when Tom blindfolded him and said he had one more surprise.

  
“Be patient, Michael,” Tom’s thumb brushed over the back of Michael’s hand. He heard a door open and close so he knew they were inside, yet Tom continued walking. Michael allowed himself to be lead along until he was stopped by his boyfriend’s strong grip on his waist. “Okay, baby.” Tom took the blindfold from Michael’s eyes.

  
“Happy birthday, Mikey!”

  
“Surprise!”

  
Co-workers, hockey players—both professional and beer league—and their significant others shouted and threw confetti as Michael realized where he was. The back room of the Cockpit had been transformed into a casual affair. Streamers and balloons every color of the rainbow hung from the ceiling, white Christmas lights and sheer tulle were stranded through the rafters, around the windows, across the bar; providing mood lighting in addition to the lit candle centerpieces on the tables which were pushed to the sides of the room to create a huge dance floor. The stage where Michael and his fellow dancers usually stripped had been turned into a DJ booth, but the best part was the smiling faces of all his friends gathered to celebrate this special day with him.

  
“Happy birthday, babe,” Tom wrapped his arms around Michael’s waist from behind, kissing his cheek. “You like?”

  
“Like? Tom, I love! It’s perfect, thank you,” Michael turned, cradling Tom’s face in his palms. Despite their audience, he brushed a soft kiss to Tom’s lips.

  
“Oh my god, there’s a child here! Andre, hide your eyes!” Nate joked.

  
“Don’t be jealous because you’re single, Schmidty,” Andre retorted, and everyone busted up laughing.

  
They mingled, danced, drank; after an hour or so, Gio and Halmz brought out a huge red velvet cake decorated with a hockey-playing stripper wearing a number 17 Capitals jersey and 25 candles. Throat thick with emotion, Michael looked around at his friends—old and new—singing happy birthday to him. Nate, loud and perpetually happy with his bright eyes and even brighter smile, singing in a ridiculous, exaggerated voice; Andre, whom Michael had met only a couple months ago but already considered like a brother, looking sweet and happy with Gio’s arms wrapped around his waist; Gio, who had a strict rule about never sleeping with the same guy more than three times, gazing down at the Swedish hockey player in his arms like he’d give him the moon if asked; TJ and his wife Lauren, Willy and his girlfriend, Halmz and Sarah, Ovi and Backy, and all of Michael’s and Tom’s teammates. Michael’s gaze finally landed and lingered on his tall, handsome, sweet boyfriend as he made a wish and blew out the birthday candles, wondering what he did right to deserve all of this.

  
After cake and a couple beers, Tom grabbed Michael’s hand and pulled him onto the dance floor. For a guy who was so graceful and smooth on skates, Tom had no idea how to move his shoulders and hips in any kind of rhythm or what to do with his hands. Michael was charmed by his efforts nonetheless, and also very tipsy and giggly by now. He threw his head back and laughed when Tom did a ridiculous little shimmy and shoulder shake, rubbing up against his body, unashamed and carefree, dancing—or whatever Tom’s gyrating could be called—the night away with their friends. Eventually, Michael had pity on his boyfriend and placed his hands on Tom’s hips, pulling their bodies close as a spicy J. Balvin song started playing. Tom’s grin was smug on his flushed face, eyes shining in the dim lighting of the room.

  
“Don’t get any ideas, sir,” Michael grinned. “I can’t watch this disaster you call dancing any longer.”

  
“What?! I’m a great dancer. Surprised your boss hasn’t offered me a job yet,” Tom placed a hand over his heart, mock-offended.

  
“Babe, it’s doesn’t matter how hot you are, no one’s paying to see you take your clothes off if you think that’s dancing,” Michael chuckled, stretching up to kiss Tom’s cheek. Because he could, and his boyfriend was adorable. “Let me show you. Follow my lead.” Keeping his left hand on Tom’s waist, Michael placed his right hand on Tom’s broad shoulder and swayed his hips to the beat of the music. Tom mimicked Michael’s movements, every so often missing the beat or trying to go too big, but Michael’s hands guided him back to where he needed to be.

  
“This isn’t so hard,” Tom proclaimed, though he kept looking down at his feet as if to make sure they were still doing what he wanted them to do.

  
Michael gripped both of Tom’s shoulders while rolling his own in time with his hips, “Now the shoulders. Keep your feet and hips going while moving your shoulders, but keep it simple. Kinda like stick-handling. Stay loose. Don’t let your upper body get ahead of your hips.”

  
They were basically grinding up against each other, Tom’s movements becoming less clumsy under Michael’s tutelage. With their faces close together, it was easy to pretend they were in their own world even though they were surrounded by their drinking and dancing friends. The music switched to a slow song by the Lumineers, one of Michael’s favorite bands.

  
“Now this I can do,” Tom murmured, arms going around Michael’s waist and resting their foreheads together as they swayed to the music. This time, Michael leaned into Tom’s strength and let him take the lead. Tom was right to be confident in his ability to slow dance; he was good, if simple, but it was nice to slow down and be able to give up control. There were no expectations to perform, no greedy lonely men grabbing and leering at him; it was just Michael and the man he might love enjoying a close, innocent birthday dance. Leaning his head on Tom’s shoulder, he glanced over to see Andre and Gio also wrapped up in each other, faces close together as they giggled and talked, completely oblivious to everyone else around them. “They look happy together.”

  
Looking up at Tom, Michael hummed, “Yeah. Who knew, eh?”

  
“Love is kinda crazy like that. One minute you’re celebrating your birthday, and the next a hot stripper hockey player drops himself in your lap and suddenly you wanna know everything about him,” Tom grinned. Michael’s heart raced and he might have forgotten how to breathe; partly because that grin was beautiful and devastating, but also because of the implications of those words. Tom stroked a gentle thumb along Michael’s jawline before cupping his chin. “Mikey, sweetheart, I know we’ve only known each other for two months, but I don’t believe in beating around the bush of a sure thing. I am completely sure that I am no-holds-barred in love with you. I love you.”

  
Michael was sure he looked like an idiot, wide-eyed and mouth agape, as he let Tom’s declaration sink in. He wondered if he actually heard what he thought he heard.

  
“You don’t have to say it back if you’re not there yet, but I can’t go another day without being honest about my feelings for you. Baby, meeting you and falling for you is the best thing—better than hockey, better than scoring the game-winning goal—and I plan to prove it every day for as long as you’ll let me.”

  
He would probably start crying if he tried to talk, and he’s always been better at showing rather than telling anyway. So Michael surged up onto his tiptoes, claiming his boyfriend’s delicious mouth in an eager, wet kiss. It was brief but filled with every emotion Tom sparked in him; his heart filled to overflowing with love he thought he would never feel again.

  
“I love you too, Tom,” Michael whispered against those plush lips brushing over his. The corners of Tom’s mouth pulled up into that dazzling smile that he seemed to reserve just for Michael. “Thank you for giving me the best birthday.”

  
Tom chuckled, smile becoming a cheeky grin, “It’s not over yet, baby. If we kick all these fools out and go back to my place, I’ll give you your gift.”

  
Intrigued and turned on, Michael was very much into that idea. Less than two hours later they had said goodnight to their friends and picked Walter up from Michael’s apartment before driving to Tom’s. After letting Walter out to do his business, making sure he had sufficient food and water and was settled down for the night, Tom pushed Michael toward the bedroom. They were barely through the doorway before they were making out, lips, tongues and hands everywhere. Tom used his big body to press Michael back against the wall, licking into his mouth, biting at his full bottom lip. At some point, Michael’s shirt ended up on the floor, but when he tried to return the favor, Tom grabbed his wrists and pulled away with smug grin.

  
“Nuh-uh,” Tom teased.

  
Michael pouted, “I’m trying to unwrap my gift.”

  
Tom chuckled, swiping a finger down Michael’s cheek before taking his hand and leading him to the bed, pushing him down onto the mattress, “Sit.”

  
“Mmm, I like when you get rough and bossy,” Michael licked his lips. Tom chuckled and batted those big blue eyes at his boyfriend before sashaying to the stereo in the corner. He touched the iPod, filling the room with the opening notes of the bass-heavy Britney song he liked to sing in the car. Tom whipped around to face Michael with a sultry look; chin tucked, lips pursed, eyes lowered. His fingers slowly undid the buttons of his shirt as he crossed the room with a little extra swing in his hips. Michael’s eyes went wide as he realized what his boyfriend’s ‘gift’ was.

  
“Are you giving me a strip tease?” Michael laughed, delighted, still a bit soft and flushed from the alcohol he had consumed earlier, but fully aware of what was happening. His cock was coming around too.

  
“Shhh,” Tom was between Michael’s legs now, “shut up and let me work.”

  
Michael was not going to argue with that if it meant his sexy hockey player boyfriend getting naked. He let his eyes roam over the flesh playing peek-a-boo behind Tom’s open shirt and couldn’t help but to touch. Reaching out, he gently kneaded hard pecs while Tom danced for him. Finally, with a roll of his body, the shirt fell off Tom’s shoulders into a puddle at his feet and he smirked down at Michael. Like he was proud of himself for figuring out that move. Michael’s cock became even more interested and his heart swelled at the realization that Tom had practiced for this. In addition to his busy hockey schedule and planning a surprise party, Tom had put in the work to be able to do what Michael had done for him to the best of his ability even though he obviously was not a dancer. Thickness settled in Michael’s throat at the pure love and adoration he had for this man who loved him back just the same. Then Tom was grinding his still-clothed ass on Michael’s crotch and lust took over his brain again.

  
“Mmm, yeah, take it off, baby! Lemme see your peacock!” Michael whistled in his best Schmidtie impression before dissolving into giggles. Tom stepped back, body still moving seductively while his hands smoothed down his chest, fingers trailing over defined abs before deliberately sweeping down through the line of dark hair under his belly button that disappeared into the waistband of his pants. Completely transfixed, Michael palmed himself through his own pants. Tom’s long fingers made quick work of the button and zipper, revealing a teasing amount of flesh but also the fact that he was not wearing any underwear. A moan escaped Michael’s throat and he was now fully erect, quite ready to just rip off both their pants and put his cock in Tom’s mouth but also intrigued to see what other surprises might be in store for him. This was Tom’s show. For once, Michael was the observer, under the spell of the lively, sexy man stripping for him.

  
Tom swung one leg across Michael’s lap, straddling his thigh and grinding against his hip to the beat of the song. Hands tousled through Michael’s thick hair, pelvis humping, obviously turned on. With his knees on either side of Micheal’s thighs, Tom’s hands went to his opened waistband, wriggling out of his pants. But they were tight pants and Tom had the big butt and muscular thighs typical of hockey players, so he was only able to get them halfway down his ass. Maybe that was part of his plan, though, because he seemed nonplussed as he slinked off Michael’s lap. Turning to give Michael a side-profile view, Tom stuck his ass out as he slowly pushed his pants down his legs, cock springing free. Michael licked his lips, palm digging further into his lap as the pressure between his legs was almost unbearable now.

  
Hands in the air, Tom turned his back to Michael, twerking his lower body until his pants fell down around his ankles. Michael could not take his eyes off his boyfriend’s bouncing ass; beautiful in hockey pants but absolutely perfect uncovered and all for him. He recognized that move too and made a mental note to thank Gio later. Then Tom was on him, buck-naked, knees on the bed, ass grinding over Michael’s erection, smirking like the asshole he was. He absolutely knew the havoc he was wreaking on all of Michael’s senses. Pulling him in, Michael kissed him senseless, tongue pushing between Tom’s lips, roughly invading his mouth the way he needed Tom’s cock invading his hole.

  
Michael got his wish. Quickly discarding his own pants before Tom crawled up his body and forced him back onto the mattress. The big hockey player’s body covered his, a welcome, hot weight holding him down, and Michael’s legs spread like Tom was made to be between them. Tom kissed him filthy, wet and slow, rubbing his hard cock in the crease of Michael’s thigh and chuckling when he was rewarded with a choked out moan. He sucked a mark into Michael’s flesh where neck met shoulder; a visible reminder to all those lonely hearts at the club that this particular stripper was taken so they had best keep their hands and dicks to themselves.

  
“Fuck me, Tom,” Michael pleaded breathlessly. “God, please, quit teasing and just fuck me. I need your big cock filling me up. It’s my birthday for fuck’s sake!”

  
Grinning, Tom leaned down to mouth at Michael’s ear, fingers finding his hole, “How do you want it, birthday boy?”

  
“Fuck me with your tongue, then fuck me with your cock,” Michael’s fingers clenched in Tom’s longish, thick hair, back arching to push his hips up in search of some friction. Gripping Michael’s thighs, Tom manhandled him over onto his stomach, pulling his hips up just enough for his ass to be in the air and his leaking cock to be off the bed, fully hard and bobbing against his belly. Big palms spread his ass cheeks, then Michael felt a warm, wet tongue lick across the puckered skin of his hole before Tom’s lips were on him so sweetly. Tom took him apart with his mouth; lips and tongue working in tandem, delving in to stretch the ring of muscle and wet the area until Michael was a quivering, moaning mess, clutching at the sheets.

  
After quickly spreading lube all over his throbbing hard cock, Tom gripped Michael’s hip and guided himself inside from behind. Tom’s thick cock pushed in slow, stretching the tender flesh, and Michael gasped out breathless moans when the head rubbed over his prostate. Then Tom was fucking into him fast and hard, arm around Michael’s neck pulling him up off the mattress, forcing his back to arch for the perfect angle. Every thrust hit that spot inside Michael that made him brainless with pleasure, crying out and eyes rolling back in his head, pushing his ass back to take all of the cock filling him up. As if he had an itch deep inside that only Tom’s cock could scratch. Tom’s hand on his cheek turned his head for a kiss as hot and dirty as the merging of their bodies. The only sounds in the room their heavy breaths and moans and Tom’s balls slapping against Michael’s ass as he fucked him thoroughly.

  
Michael protested when Tom pulled out, the emptiness unbearable, but it was only to get him on his back, then that fat cock was in him again. Toes curling, arms circling around Tom's shoulders and lifting his chin for more kisses, Michael clung to his boyfriend as he was fucked. Loved. Giving as much of his heart as he was his body. All for Tom, his lover and protector, the only man who took the time to gather the pieces of his broken soul and mend it back together with patience, acceptance and tenderness. They were not perfect, but Michael figured if they were for each other, there was no dream too impossible to make a reality.


End file.
